The Road Goes Ever On
'' The Road goes ever on and on, '' '' Down from the door where it began. '' '' Now far ahead the Road has gone, '' '' And I must follow, if I can. '' ---- 'War Room - ' ---- :One of the largest rooms within Dawnstar Keep, the War Room is also one of the most brightly lit, thanks mostly to the ceiling featuring a stained-glass dome depicting nothing more than an interlace of colors and light. :The central feature of the War Room is the large, round redwood table that dominates much of the floor space from within its position in the middle of the room. Polished to a deep shine, it has space for twelve people to sit around it at equidistant positions, and thus comes equipped with a number of high-backed redwood chairs for that very purpose. :Set atop the standard red-with-gold-trim carpeting against the usual backdrop of dark bluish-gray stone, the redwood table shares the War Room with a number of other items of furniture, such as the trio of sturdy desks tucked into an open alcove on the northern side of the room, and the various bookshelves that line the walls, complete with documents and maps of trade routes and Imperial Fort locations that would be out of place within the main library. :Serving as a place of study, business, politics, or simple retreat, the War Room is a location that is tasked with a number of roles when the need arises, but remains mostly empty and quiet all the same. Of curious note, one can also find a steel crossbow quarrel firmly lodged in the southern wall. ---- If the setting was anywhere else, it would almost seem romantic. In its current state, the War Room of Dawnstar Keep is filled with shadow - save, that is, for a single fat candle that burns in the middle of the round table that dominates the room itself, the candle's flame casting a soft orange glow upon the wooden surface that it stands upon. A candle's flame and a ethereal glow of azure eyes within the darkness, sat at the side of the table that is furthest away from the ingress into the room. Here broods the Prince of the Blood, his gaze intent upon an exotic sword that rests before him, as if he was reading the lore of the item from the very metal of the blade itself. The sword in question is a very strange one indeed: though roughly the length of a longsword, the design is little like those forged by Fastheldian weaponsmiths. The blade is thin and curved like that of a sabre, yet far longer; the handle is of polished redwood, adorned with golden vines; the pommel is of gold; the tang is of a rat-tail construction. It is beautiful, and it is deadly. "This shouldn't be here," Serath quietly offers, half to himself and half to whoever happens to be entering his sanctuary of shadows and candleflame. "You shouldn't either, at this hour," softly chides a feminine contralto from the faraway ingress as a second night owl moves beyond the flicker of candlelight. One needs not a candle when they possess their own beacon on their finger. Still, the light she moves by is a ghastly hue - far less comforting than the warm glow of flame. A little creature chitters a second opinion - the lithe, brown fuzz alive in her folded arms. Nigh blind he may be, the mischief-maker knows well the voice of his favorite opponent and wiggles in efforts to be free to seek him out. Rowena obliges, stopping just inside the doorway to gently let the mongoose to the floor. When she stands she remains there, watching him across the distance in fond study. "What's that you've found to play with? It looks dreadfully sharp." "It-" Only now does it seem to register that someone is talking to himself, followed a second later by that unique yet unearthly gaze of his falling upon a comforting sight - that of his Duchess. It prompts a soft smile to flow across a face caressed by warm ambiance of candlelight, yet Serath himself still seems wounded somehow, melancholy almost. "Rowena," he purrs, a fondness is his voice, "I didn't hear you come in." That alone should indicate that something serious is afoot. "Now you know how I feel," Rowena murmurs with a sage-like dip of her chin. The whisper of supple velvet over firm redwood traces the path of her hand - and body along the length of the table, towards his chosen throne. "What troubles you this night, my Prince. You're not having second thoughts about the House union, are you?" Head tilted with concern, she slows her steps as she nears. The trick to her silence paces there - bared feet. Zareef bumbles his own way along, choosing the course less traveled by; a course that would lead him beneath the table, of course, and weaving with close encounters between legs of chairs that his whiskers thankfully inform him of, sparing his nose each and every time. A skilled hunter of man, this beast is. But it's rarely the man that interests him! It's the boots - namely, the laces. It is perhaps to Zareef's misfortune that Serath's latest boots feature buckles, rather than laces. Still, half the fun is find that out in the dark, one might imagine. As for the Prince himself, he is - for once - mostly out of armor. The distinctive midnight-blue leather longcoat with its articulated iron spaulder and all sleeps upon the back of the high-backed wooden chair that he sits upon this night, leaving the Prince to ponder in the black-leather doublet that is often hidden beneath it. In all, Serath actually looks like a casual Royal for once. "No, the union is still something I very much advocate," he affirms in soft tones, watching Rowena moves as she passes through darkness towards his light in both metaphor and literal action. "There is... much you know, much you don't, and much you only have half an idea about," he laments, almost sadly, as he gestures to one of the chairs to the side of his own. "This blade arrived from Crown's Refuge this afternoon, curtosey of a Syladris by the name of Rhiza who had previously indicated that she had something to give me. I'd expected a curious trinket or a leaf she'd found that she thought was pretty. Instead..." He gestures to the sword. And find it out, Zareef does. But it will take more than buckles to discourage his teeth. The geriatric mongoose sets to work, gnawing at will. "A blade nearly as serpentine as its former owner?" Rowena mutters, seemingly unimpressed of whom this blade derived from. An innate sense of jealousy, perhaps? Taking the chair to his right, the tired Rowena gathers her nightdress up a notch and settles down into the seat amidst a rustling of fabric. "I'm sure it would make a finer wall ornament than that damned bow quarrel," She nods aside to the offending piece, tirelessly protruding as boldly as it had from day one. "If it was a gift, then why the long expression?" As any woman with an eye for things of shiny nature, Rowena reaches out to touch the gold-laden handle. Serath doesn't stop Rowena from touching. Evidently, the sword isn't cursed, made of fire, tainted with dark magics, or alive. It is, for all intents and purposes, just a very exotic longsword. The anfractuous argent blade shimmers in the candle light, almost inviting the Duchess to explore the meandrous contours of the polished handle. The blade itself also seems to feature inscribed golden runic lettering upon the length of the foible and fuller; yet upon the forte rests an image of a unidentified creature - a creature that seems to be half of a large wildcat (or a leporidae) with wings, with a head and front legs more akin to those of a falcon. "Rhiza claimed that the weapon was found by a Wildlander exploring the Darklands. She apparently traded him something for it that is of little relevance, but the tale told of how he came across it claims that HE found it on a Dark Wildling." At this point, Serath points to that unusual creature. "Do you know what that is?" Rowena's hand freezes, the idea of sharing 'germs' with the blade's allegedly toxic origins pausing her exploration at the forte - and its creature - in question. Lifting her thumb off of it, she peers curiously at the deformation of nature, lower lip disappearing between contemplative teeth. "A very imaginative drawing?" the Healer guesses, ignorant yet of many things that escape the logical boundaries of the natural world. "But of course it must be more than that if you sit here wasting the hours in its study. What would /you/ call such a beast?" "It's not what /I/ would call such a creature," Serath offers, notably avoiding the term 'beast'. "There is... /much/ that I doubt remember regarding what happened to me between the time I fell to my supposed 'death' from that ledge in the Wildlands, and the time I stumbled upon the wooden palisade of a young Crown's Refuge a year later. I'm not even sure if I did die or not..." He sighs heavily, looking away from Rowena for a moment to stare into the flame of the flickering candle just beyond reach. There is a sadness in his voice that seems utterly foreign somehow, as if he was afraid to learn of what he really became, yet sorrowful for the memories he can't recall. Or couldn't recall, at least. "I didn't even *know* that Sara'tharalax was connected to me until we'd returned to Fastheld. I just... well, imagine that only you could see a Drakar'ri; imagine that you could *see* her but also through her, and that she had conversations with you, passing opinions and comments that you refused to accept was real until she finally got tired of expecting you to understand and proved that she was in fact, tied to you in spirit..." "And then, over time," he continues, "you start making sense of it all to the point in which you realize that you're not the same person you remember being. The Serath that fell from that ledge is not the same Serath who found his Princess in a village upon a bluff a year later... and yet, he IS." He falls silent at that point, the question going unanswered for the moment. Breathing a patient sigh, Rowena abandons the stroking of the blade and puts her hands to better use - enfolding his. "I would probably journey my way back to that ledge and leap from it a second time," Rowena states bluntly, giving his hands a squeeze of reassurance. "You, however, had the tenacity to live as you were and to conquer the arrival of new pieces to your puzzle as they came. In that way, you are most definitely the same Serath." "And, if my senses inform me correctly, you smell like the same Serath, look....reasonably much like the same Serath, and retain that irresistible purr to your voice - that is of course when your lady friend is not the one doing the talking." Leaning in to sniff pointedly at his hair in punctuation of her argument, she adds "The concept of evaded death and rebirth confounds my mind to the point of tears some nights, Serath. I cannot know anymore answers to it than you. But regardless of how you came to be, again, and no matter who or what tagged along for the ride, the single most important fact is that you are indeed here. I'm not certain what the course of your existence has in relation to this here blade, but if it's the cause for your worry, then I'm going to toss this from the tower back into the land from which it came." "The creature on the blade is known as an Illuvian," the Prince elaborates, having gained encouragement from Rowena's own soothing reassurances. "It is one of the venerated guardians of the Light - the antithesis to the Shadow's wraiths, if you will. They were, at one time, somewhat common to those of deep faith. However, with the rise of the Church of True Light and the Aegis, and the Church's fervent eradication of all things 'mythological' as being heresy, they fell out of memory." "The strength of faith," Serath continues, looking back upon his Princess to be, "is that it empowers that which you believe in. The Light would still exist even if people didn't know it existed, but much of what it could accomplish would be restricted compared to the good it can bring when people are devoted. The same is true of the Illuvian, which is why that image seems so fictional and abstract and fantastic to you." "Except they're not." Serath's blunt statement there leaves little doubt as to the sincerity of such a claim. "I've seen one, Row. At first, the image to me was as vague as it was to you, but then something just... clicked. This blade... this blade is from a place known as Ravenrend - a sanctuary of the Light far above an undermountain realm known as Damarask. This is the weapon of a guardian of that place." "Oh..." Is all Rowena can speak for a few moments as she looks with the inscripted runes with a new light in her eyes. "How then, I wonder, did it fall into the hands of a Wildling. And moreover...where and when did YOU see this, erm, Illuvian? Was that one of those memories bestowed upon you by /her/?" Once more, she reaches out with a hand to touch the blade, this time feeling for herself the sharpened edge. Unconcerned with majestic metals and mysterious faiths, Zareef continues his attempted plunder in the darkness. Next to be targeted is the pants leg as he stands on hind leg. It's not that Serath isn't interested in Zareef's oral and dental exploration of his boot; it's that the leather and the plating upon them is thick enough to stop an axe. Thus, questing through memory and time, the Prince isn't even aware of the little Mongoose - perhaps to Zareef's fortune. "Ravenrend." he begins. "Isnath Doth Du I'el," he adds in a language not quite his own. "Ravenrend is... these aren't memories bestowed by Sara'tharalax. This isn't her memory, this is my own. Ravenrend is where this all began. Ravenrend is Sara's domain; her place of sanctuary within the light. A holy place guarded by Illuvian and protected by a people known as the Mistral - a people similar to we Imperials but fairer and wiser; empathic yet pragmatic; courageous yet compassionate. For this blade to have come into the hands of a Dark Wildling could only mean that the haven has been breeched." "Rowena," the Prince adds, his voice taking on a slightly more urgent tone, though questioning in its nature. "I need you to be honest about something. This dragonsblood... this bond with Sara'tharalax... this connection to the Light... would you..." He pauses there, catching himself, unsure of how to word what he wishes to say, "While my bond with Sara'tharalax will never be severed, it can be quieted to a whisper; in doing so, though, my connection to the Light will weaken also, though many will not see a difference. For you, I would do this, but also for Sara'tharalax. She has, perhaps, been gone from her home for too long - but it is you that I'm most interested in." You have set your title. "I have learned to coexist with Sara'tharalax." Rowena smiles faintly - her enunciation of the word still far from perfect, as some were simply not meant to speak Drakar'ri. "Or rather with her coexistence within you. It does not disturb me as much as it used to. But if her home is in danger then she should be made free to tend it as needed." Reaching up to sweep a little wayward piece of his hair with her finger, she whispers "Perhaps it's not I you should seek permission from." The Prince smiles softly. "It is not her that I need permission from," he purrs. "It is she that wishes permission from me." "Then be a courteous host and let her free, Serath. That is of course assuming you are not going to turn into a lifeless corpse when she leaves. Because if that's the case, well...I'm locking you both up." Folding her hands over his again, Rowena arches a brow. "I think I can tolerate you as more a man and less an enigma beaming with the Light's holy spectra." Serath places his own free hand atop the two that Rowena has placed upon its counterpart, nodding softly in turn. "I think, then, that you deserve to have more normality in your life than you have now. Though... perhaps not *too* much, as the Duchess Valoria deserves her distinctive position, I think." "We'll need to return to Ravenrend," he finally concludes, "in the Darklands, then. Not right away, perhaps, but soon enough. I was thinking... perhaps after we finally marry." "We?" Rowena queries apprehensively, tilting her head back to eye him suspiciously. "*We* do not make such long trips when the weather is so dark and cold, if by "soon" you imply within the season." "Well," Serath notes, mirth finally warming the previously cold sorrow of his regal purr, "you don't *have* to make the sojourn with me, Row. I just thought I would *ask* this time." "Why do you have to return there? Is Sara not capable enough of righting what has gone wrong?" Evidently Rowena is not a fan of what lies behind door number two, either. "I will go, just....can it not wait until it is *warm*?" "It can," Serath confirms, looking back upon the heraldic blade that has brought such change to the halls of Dawnstar Keep for a moment, sounding somewhat unconvinced if his words are as sincere as he hopes them to be. "But I have to return there because Sara'tharalax is *bound* to me in spirit, as I am to her. Where I go, Sara must follow. This is part of the covenant of which I shine with the Light, rather than just walk in it. It is, I believe, part of why I have dragonsblood in my veins; part of how I can channel so much divine power; part of why I live today." "The dragonsblood will always remain, Rowena," he notes, "which I suppose means that I'm not entirely Imperial anymore, but I am still me, and I love you, and nothing will change that." "She cannot then return to her home until you do?" Rowena deduces with a deadpan tone, eyes locked on his with an intensity that suggests she's not going to be swayed from a solid answer by professing of love. "Or you simply must rejoin her eventually?" Zareef gives up on his chewing, jaw old and tired, and contents himself with curling up over the would-have-been prize instead. If you can't steal it...sleep on it - a mantra long since learned from his affair with a scabbard. Serath nods - a soft incline of his head. "The former," he elaborates once it becomes clear that a gesture of affirmation does little to answer a two-pronged question, "It's... well, imagine if we were holding hands all the time. There is a lot that you can do, but you remain tied to the person you're holding hands with." "On one hand," he pauses, ignoring the pun, and then picks up again, "you always have the comfort of having someone's hand to hold on to, safe in the knowledge that they're holding your hand in turn because they want to." To add to the point, he gives Rowena's hands a gentle squeeze with his own, dog piled as they are upon his other. "On the other, there are a few things that you're limited in doing, and you can't get away from that person." "And how long must she stay there?" Rowena whispers, hands having gone numb and motionless. A smile forms but it is of a more bitter nature. This invasive thing, this 'other woman' as it were, could most likely be the one thing keeping her Serath alive, to Rowena's understanding. She cannot have her cake and eat it, too - a sour potion to swallow. "It would be permanent," Serath confirms, "I'd still share a bond through blood connection, but it would be more a whisper than anything else. A Guardian Drakar'ri whispering her advice from time to time, rather than one that haunts my footsteps, and occasionally hitches a ride." "I was referring to her visit to Ravenrend," Rowena blurts, eyes now alight with a watery fire. "For how long must Sara'tharalax be away from Fastheld." Her fingertips bend, nails angling downwards in a subtle clench. At that, Serath merely smiles; the source of much of Rowena's concern (if not all of it) has been laid bare, and the Prince's answer is simple: he takes her hands in his own, brings them to his mouth, and kisses the back of the fingers of each in turn. One, two, and a smile. "Her tenure in Ravenrend would be lasting," the Prince confirms, perhaps feeding Rowena's fears. "However," he adds, softly, "Mine would not." A shuddering breath releases Rowena's next retort before it can be uttered and her lips break their tension into a wavering grin of nervous relief. "Ah," She coughs once, throat still seized, "Therein then lays the normality you afore mentioned." Twisting one of her hands palm-side-up, she pushes at the corner of his mouth. "The worries I spend over you will indeed become my death, you know. This heart has aged two-fold over the course of this conversation." An affectionate sigh escapes the Prince, and in the wake of such a statement he brings Rowena's hands to his lips, and then rests them beneath his chin, still between his own. "I will no longer be this 'avatar' that people have come to call me. Well, at least not entirely. I suspect the sacrifice in 'power' will be something that only you and I become aware of, but to most I imagine my connection to the Light will still seem magnificent." "I don't think my hair is ever going to change back, though," he adds with a smile, just to cheer his Duchess up. Rowena wrinkles her nose in mock disappointment, allowing her hands to remain captured as are. Her feet, however, are still very much free to deal further punishment; and so one playfully sluggish kick offends his defended shin with the harmless flesh of her left foot. "Let them think what they will. A reputation like that can only serve you well; enless of course you don't like the attention." The Prince winces a little at the kick (if only for effect), but his smile is genuine - as is the affection that warms the cold flames of those ethereal blue eyes. "Row, the attention is always going to be there, Sunkissed or not," he notes. "Especially when I have someone as beautiful as you by my side. In truth, they only want to talk to me so they can look at you. It's true! They invent problems just so they have an excuse." "Yes, I'm sure I'm the envy of every woman in the realm," Rowena drawls wryly, seeming not so convinced as her foot then sets to work on dislodging Zareef from his resting place over Serath's boot. "Or is it that people invent dramatics that demand my resolution with the hopes that the complexity of it all will lure /you/ into the matter? Come no, you're not too far a cry from the brave little Horsemaster that used to trot around the tourney field, stealing the hearts of women young and old. The things I heard from the stands would have turned you red in the face. Or, perhaps it was simply the sight of Hartnek that drove the maidens wild." On this last remark, Rowena snerks into a laugh. "Hartnek was a shining beacon of masculinity; it's true," the Prince agrees with all mock sincerity, "what with that gruff voice, gruff attitude, gruff visage, gruff glare, gruff opinion of the world..." He trails off, using the moments of silence to just gaze fondly upon Rowena, before drawing one final conclusion: "They come to see Zareef." Rowena's giggle relivens, newfound wrinkles crinkling the corners of her eyes that might have been just a bit smoother some years back. "A traitor he is - lounging around in bed all day, growing fat at my expense, while secretly plotting to steal the glory as slyly as he did ribbons. Well, the mystery is solved, then. Next time there is a crisis or House feud I'll send Zareef by courier to mend the situation." Zareef finally gets the hint, wakes up, and stretches off his perch. Rowena tugs her hands lightly from side to side within his own as a half-hearted attempt to break free. "Even the serving staff has gone to bed, my love. The halls are empty. Must you continue to dwell in this hiding hole for the evening?" Serath takes a deep breath to finally quell all the previous emotions and fears that the exotic blade evidently invoked, and then merely nods. "I could never forsake my Rowena for a sword, no matter how shiny it may be." "Then come to bed," Rowena whispers, leaning forward to plant a kiss upon his brow before rising from the chair. ---- ''Return to Season 7 (2008) Category:Logs